All of You and All of Me
by Elske
Summary: Shassie hurt/comfort AU post 3.11  Lassie's done a bad bad thing : this time with more trauma. Warnings for possible ptsd triggers and, well, the fact that this is a hurt/comfort written by someone who doesn't generally like the genre.
1. AluminumAdrenaline

[[Author's Notes:

I really don't know how to even begin explaining this.

It's a work in progress. Inspired a bit by fmapreshwabs' "Operation Romantically Challenged", because that got me to rewatch "Lassie's Done A Bad Bad Thing" and in my head afterwards this just started to fall together.

AU, post 3.11.

Hurt/Comfort Shassie written by someone who usually dislikes the genre and knows, too well, what trauma feels like. I've seen this trope written beautifully, I just don't think I can pull it off. But I'm trying anyway. If you are prone to anxiety/panic attacks/PTSD, I want to put a big glowing warning up for possible triggers.

The guys are probably – definitely? – ooc. Because this is an AU hurt/comfort trauma thing. Yeah.

Lyric tags are from REM's "E-Bow The Letter", simply because it's awesome.

I promise I will update "Handcuffed" tomorrow.

If you like this, please review. If you don't like this, please review. The other four parts may just stay stuck in my head.

H&Ks, Elske]]

"_aluminum, tastes like fear  
>adrenaline, it pulls us near<em>…"

[& day one. AluminumAdrenaline.]

Carlton makes a second round of his apartment, checking to make sure all of his guns are in the places they're meant to be in: and it's not that he's usually this compulsive, really, it's just that for a while his home was a crime scene and it's taking a while for him to get things back to normal.

It's eerily quiet in his house, and he scowls for a moment, soaking the quiet in. It's not something that used to bother him, but things go funny, sometimes, after cases. (_after shooting after almost being shot after _Spencer): and he tells that little voice in his head to shut up. Better, he'll drown it out with the tv. He perches on the edge of the sofa, scans the room, thinking of where all the weapons are, just in case (_just in case of what, Carlton_). Just in case of nothing. The case is over and he has his house back and a five-day vacation to put everything to rights and find normal again.

He sinks back against the sofa, closes his eyes, remembers where all the guns are without looking, tries not to think about the smell of gunpowder and the smell of sweat and the smell of fear: tries not to think about Drimmer and his lies, tries not to think about the gleam of gratitude in Shawn Spencer's eyes in that exact moment he realized that he wasn't about to die. (_about to die like you were, Carlton_). Maybe, he thinks, maybe that's why it's sticking in his head and rattling around so much, this time. He'd been involved in more crimes, more cases, more gunshots, more times tipping over the line between almost dead and almost alive than he'd care to remember, and most of the time – sweet Justice, most of the time! – a good night's sleep and a proper cup of coffee sets everything to rights again.

Carlton sighs, opens his eyes, remembers where all the weapons are.

Maybe it's because it was in his house, his own house, a place where no one else ever set foot (_that's the truth of this house, isn't it , Carlton, no friends or family here until Drimmer and Spencer and the CSIs_) : his house all torn apart and spilling its guts out into the streets and airing all his dirty laundry and how many people would have heard that lie, about him and Spencer, and thought it the truth?

It's not the truth.

He wouldn't ever take his own life. (_You've thought about it Carlton how easy it would be that fine line between almost…)_

It's too damn loud. He turns off the television, and he remembers where all the weapons are, and he wants to pour himself a drink but he's not supposed to if he takes the pills in the bottle on the coffee-table like the sweet-face nurse instructed – and it sounded so sincere it might have been her first time counseling, her eyes shining with pity and awe, your charts don't say you're prone to post-traumatic stress, but just in case I want you to have these, if you're having flashbacks, signing the prescription with a flourish.

He's been given those half a dozen times before, and they always ended up folded four times, jammed into the ashtray of his car, eventually discarded with the trash, but something made him take this one to the pharmacy counter to have it filled. He doesn't like taking pills.

It's too quiet, and that's why he jumps when his phone rings, that's why his whole body fills with adrenaline (and it's too soon yet to tell if it's the good kind or the bad) . It's Spencer's ringtone. He manages to take a deep breath, remembers where all the weapons are, and answers the phone.

"Hey, Lassy." Spencer's voice is dimmed, uncertain. "They let you back in your house yet?"

"Yeah. My first night, here."

"I was thinking…" and he trails off, and Carlton can hear him sigh. "It's stupid. I'm stupid. I'm a grown man and I'm stupid and you're probably just fine even though I'm not and I wanted to come off all smooth and it's not working. I was going to give you a pick up line, something about how it would be a shame to spend the first night back home alone, and you'd tell me to knock it off like you do every time I hit on you and – oh, fuck."

"Yeah," Carlton agrees, eyes focusing and then unfocusing on the pillbottle.

"I'm being entirely serious when I say this, Lassy: can I come over? I don't want to be alone right now, and…" he trails off again, mutters something under his breath that Carlton can't quite make out. "Look, no one else would get it but you were there and you deal with almost dying all the time, and it's not just that and I don't know how to…"

"It's fine," Carlton interrupts, neatly. "You can come over."

"Thanks."

Carlton snaps his phone shut and remembers where the weapons are and watches out the window for the lights of Spencer's motorcycle: so he can be there, waiting. (_so you know who exactly you're letting in so you don't have to flinch at the sound of a knock at your door so_…). It's too damn quiet, he thinks, and he switches the television back on while he waits.

Soon enough, Shawn's there, on his doorstep, and Carlton notices the other man's hands shaking as he unfastens his motorcycle helmet. His eyes are wide and wary and it looks like he hasn't slept in days; and then he gives Carlton one of those looks that's so unsettling: full of earnest appreciation. "Thanks, man," he says, and Carlton moves out of the doorway so Spencer can enter the room, and then he locks the door and throws the deadbolt and pulls the curtains tightly shut.

"You're welcome. I almost got you killed, I suppose I owe you." He's trying to make a joke but it falls a bit flat; Spencer just looks a bit wounded and then flops down on the couch and pretends he's terribly interested in the re-run of "America's Most Wanted" and Carlton does the same.

There's a commercial on for something when Shawn turns and gives him one of those disarming (_breathtaking_) looks. "Can I ask you something?"

Carlton just nods.

"I didn't think anyone knew, but if Drimmer did, then…does everyone?"

Carlton frowns, and his forehead creases with the effort, and he asks "Knew what, Spencer?"

Shawn's eyes are downcast. "How I felt – feel – about you. The last thing I was thinking before you got there – I should have been thinking of a way to get out of there, I should have been using my mind , I should have been doing something psychic, and all I could think was: this is how Carlton is going to find out, over my dead body and that's not a saying people should ever take literally." He blinks up, makes eye-contact.

And Carlton feels dizzy, because this is nothing like the childish flirting teasing that he's used to from the other man, this is something raw and real and thus frightening as all hell. "What do you mean, how you feel about me? Are you saying you have feelings for me?"

"Yes. Romantic-sexual-I don't know how to explain it, and now you're going to toss me out, so maybe we can just both forget I said anything and watch some Thundercats?" He attempts a smile, and Carlton has to look away.

He breaks the eye contact, and remembers where all his weapons are. "If you just started feeling this way, it's because of the incident, here. Any psychologist will tell you that. I've had other people think that I was some kind of hero after I…"

"It's not that," Spencer protests. "Fuck, I'm not a child, Lassiter." He rolls his eyes. "It's been like, two years man, and I can't believe you haven't noticed…forget it."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not the type of person that can just forget it after someone says they have feelings for me," Carlton says, almost primly, (_and because that happens to you just how often exactly, Carlton?_)

From somewhere down the street comes the sound of a police siren and both men jump – towards one-another! – and as the sound fades Carlton remembers where all the weapons are, and realizes that he's in Spencer's arms.

"I'm sorry," whispers Spencer.

"It's okay," says Carlton. "It honestly honestly is," and he closes his eyes, tips his head against Spencer's shoulder, and thinks it might just be the good kind of adrenaline this time because he's still processing what the other man had said earlier, about feeling feelings (_you remember what feelings are, Carlton, those things you pretend you don't have_).

"You didn't like me before, I doubt this will help."

"Why would you say that?" Carlton says, honestly confused, and he feels Spencer's dry laugh before he hears it.

"You never have anything nice to say to me. You never have anything nice to say about anyone, and…"

Carlton closes his eyes, and remembers where the weapons are, and murmurs "You astound me, Shawn Spencer."

"Yes, that's exactly when I realized it too."

He moves out of Spencer's arms, gives the other man a puzzled look. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You don't remember? Of course you don't remember." Spencer closes his eyes, shakes his head. "You don't remember, you were drunk enough to be off guard, and you were looking at me all blue eyed and beautiful and that's exactly what you said, that I astound you and…forget it."

"I am not going to fucking forget it, Spencer," Carlton breathes, a tint of anger coloring his words, and then he watches as Spencer flinches away. And that flinch gives him the coldest, the sharpest, the most horrible feeling he's ever had. "Shit, Spencer, I'm sorry."

And then Spencer's turned to kiss him, a kiss just as sharp and angry as Carlton's sudden outburst: over just as quickly and Carlton's blinking, shocked, and Spencer laughs that dry laugh again. "Guess we're even."

"Yeah."

Shawn cups a yawn in his hand, then leans so he can retrieve the bottle of pills from his pocket. "I can't decide whether I love or hate these things," he admits to Carlton. "For one, they take away all my psychic powers, they dull my reflexes. And they make me feel like I'm invincible and that I could do anything in the world but before I get the ambition I fall asleep. But it's a good sleep, no worries to it," and he palms up one of the pills and dry-swallows it and Carlton just watches.

"I think the nurse gave me the same ones," he admits, finally.

"Have you taken them?"

Carlton shakes his head, mutely. Shawn tips a small blue oval of a pill out into the palm of his hand, "The benefits outweigh the drawbacks, Gus reassured me of that."

There's a trembling starting in Carlton's hands so instead of reaching for the pill he just opens his mouth, tips his head, closes his eyes, and it's bitter like poison and it takes him far too long to summon enough saliva to choke it down. He shivers, and remembers where all the weapons are, and doesn't flinch away when Shawn puts an arm around his shoulders.

The calm slowly grows around them, and faces of criminals flash on the television screen and there's so many criminals that Carlton can't remember which of them he knows and which only look familiar. A vespa screeches down the street and he only flinches a little bit, and maybe Spencer was right about the benefits outweighing the drawbacks.

He turns to say something to Spencer at just the wrong moment: their foreheads collide and then they're laughing and then they're kissing and it's really the best kissing of his entire life, Carlton thinks, because it is so calm, so unhurried. He ends up in Spencer's lap, and he's twitching the blanket from the back of the sofa down to cover both of their heads, trap them in a warm woolen cocoon, and it's beautiful: the safest he's felt in his whole damn life and he doesn't care where all the weapons are, not when Spencer is kissing him like that, coaxing with his tongue and he feels like it's impossible to get close enough. He thinks if he could get close enough they could breathe the same breath they could share the same heartbeat and that would be safe, but even if it's not safe it's wonderful. And it's definitely the good kind of adrenaline this time, not even enough to get aroused – and kissing like this should be arousing, but it's not quite that.

Spencer yawns against his lips; Carlton stretches and overbalances them both off of the sofa in an ungraceful woolen heap.

Carlton fumbles for the remote control, fumbles to get the thoughts coherent in his head, tries to figure out how to ask Spencer what he wants to ask Spencer: his brain butterflies around four different ways to say it and finally he says "There's more room, in my bed."

Spencer nods. "I like this blanket," he proclaims, "I'll bring it." He follows Carlton down the hallway to the bedroom.

"I'm glad you're here," Carlton admits, pausing on the threshold.

"Me too," says Spencer, with another yawn: he pushes past Carlton to dash across the room, vault into it as though he's afraid there might be a monster underneath.

Might there be a monster underneath?

Carlton hesitates by the light-switch, because he's too fuzzy-brained to remember immediately exactly where the weapons are. "I'm leaving the light on," he says, looks over to see Spencer nod, and he makes his own dash for the bed, stepping out of his trousers along the way. He pauses before shedding his shirt, and then he decides comfort trumps the need to get dressed in a hurry just in case (_just in case of what, Carlton_?).

Spencer's hands and feet are cold, but he lets Carlton hold him as tightly as he likes.

(Carlton's last thought, before falling asleep, is that he's pretty sure their hearts are beating in the same rhythm.)


	2. FearThere

[[Author's Notes:

Thank you, everyone, for your feedback on this. I've decided to make it more than just a one-shot where Carlton is twitchy into the building of a Shawn/Carlton relationship, and your encouragements have helped nudge me in that direction. So thank you. (Special thanks to you, fmapreshwab, for all of your encouragements and general awesomeness.) Also, thank you to shassiefan, Inkcapacitated, Chaos Valkyrie, Jay, and torchil for your reviews.

This is rated M for a reason: in this case, for possible anxiety/PTSD triggers and also for sex-type-activities.

As before, the lyric tags are from "E-Bow The Letter" by REM. If you haven't heard the song, I recommend looking it up on youtube. Be sure to get the version with Patti Smith. The confused/slightly pained/dreamy atmosphere is the same place this story comes from.

Until next,

H&K's, Elske.]]

_It tastes like fear, there_

_I'll take you (over there)_

[& day two).FearThere.]

The first time Carlton wakes up that morning, it is still dark. He is disoriented, and he remembers where the weapons are and then he thinks of Spencer.

The other man is asleep, all curled up in a tight fetal ball, and Carlton realizes that the other man's feet are freezing. Half asleep, he reaches off to the side of the bed – where he kicked his own socks off before bed – and retrieves them from the floor. He slips under the blanket, deftly maneuvers the socks onto Spencer's feet, and is gratified when the other man doesn't wake, just smiles in his sleep.

Carlton curls his body around Spencer's, echoing the curl of his body, wrapping one arm around his waist, ducking his head in against the nape of his neck. It is comfortable, Carlton thinks. He's always been better at sleeping when someone else was there: from the sleepovers with the first love of his life to the routine of years of marriage with Victoria who only let him hold her when she was sleeping. There's something wrong about thinking of Victoria, just now, thinks Carlton, and so he yawns and closes his eyes and remembers where all the weapons are, pulls the down blanket up almost over his face, and somehow manages to find sleep again.

[[*****]]

The second time Carlton wakes that morning, the sun is streaming brightly through the windows and Shawn Spencer has just vocalized a strangled sort of sob. The suddenness of the noise has Carlton awake in an instant, rummaging through the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed and coming up with the nearest gun in hand.

"Shawn, what is it?" he asks, in enough of a panic that he actually calls the other man by his first name.

"Nightmare," says Shawn, his voice small and strained, as if breathing is too much an effort. "'m fine."

"No you're not," Carlton mutters, but he carefully replaces the gun before settling back against the pillows, gently pulling Shawn back into his arms. "But you will be." It's the best thing he can think to say, the only reassurance he can come up with, and he's got one arm flung over Spencer's hips and he begins stroking through Spencer's hair with his other hand, a gesture that's somehow soothing to both of them.

He's drowsy, despite having more sleep in one night than in the entire past week: perhaps it is the warm nearness of Shawn Spencer in his bed, perhaps the warm dazzle of the sunlight bathing the bed, perhaps it's the sure knowledge that there's nothing else – nothing better! – to do. He sighs against the back of Spencer's neck, remembers where all the weapons are, and then dares to press a kiss against the soft skin just above the slope of Spencer's shoulders. And another. And another.

Spencer laughs, suddenly. "_Lassiter_," he murmurs.

"What, don't you like…I'm sorry…" Carlton says very quickly, and he can feel himself blushing and his hand stills in Spencer's hair.

"Don't like?" Spencer snorts, shifts his body in such a way that Carlton's other hand is suddenly confronted wit h very powerful evidence to the contrary.

For a moment, then, Carlton's fingers twitch at Spencer's crotch, stroking lightly, tracing the line of the half-hard cock through the soft cotton underwear: and then Spencer is laughing, again, and shifts his whole body away, turns to face Carlton.

"Are you ready for that, really?" he asks, softly, looking Carlton directly in the eyes. "I mean…I don't know if…" he's flushed too, a bit, and Carlton can't help finding that – a show of weakness for someone usually so mired in bravado! – adorable, and heart-rending, all at once.

Carlton remembers where all the weapons are, and then he asks "What is it, Spencer?", a touch of impatience in his voice.

"Have you ever, _done things_ with, you know, another guy?" He raises one eyebrow and grins and that is irresistible too, Carlton thinks.

"Yes," he admits, with a small half-smile. "Some things. We were young. It didn't work out." Understatement of the century, that, but it's all he's going to say on the topic, because it hurts too much to say more, to think of homophobic parents, of fathers willing to deliver a punishment strong enough to break three of their son's bones because another boy's mother phoned to say _your son's a queer, a sexual deviant and he's corrupting my Carlton_. Only now he's thinking about it, and it's a punch in the gut and a stab in the heart and isn't that part of why he became a cop, so he could put parents who hurt children behind bars?

He's trapped in the past, and he doesn't know how long he's stuck there, but then he's being kissed gently, and he opens his eyes and there's Spencer. He relaxes, then, thinks of where all the weapons are and smiles against Spencer's lips.

"I was worried about you? Where did you go?"

"Away," Carlton answers simply. "To a place I hate". A long long pause, and then he adds, in a whisper, " Thanks for bringing me back."

Spencer cups Carlton's face in both of his hands, kisses him gently again, then lets go. "My mother would call that," he brings up his hands to make air quotes, "disassociation. Flashbacks, where you sometimes get stuck and can't find your way out. She's a shrink, remember. It doesn't happen to me. The nurse said it was a symptom, that and hypervigilance, but when am I _not_ hypervigilant?"

"Exactly." Carlton grins, then his expression softens to something unreadable. "Spencer? Have you ever?"

"Disassociated? I just said I hadn't…ohhh, you're talking about the other thing." His eyes light up. "Yeah. Most everything. I like women too, but…some guys are just…irresistible, with you at the top of the list,

followed very closely by this guy I knew in Argentina."

"Hmm." Carlton yawns, stretches, remembers where all the weapons are. His skin feels gritty, sweat-sticky, and he thinks about taking a shower, and he instantly regrets it because there's no place in the entire house where you're more vulnerable than you are in the shower. The lights are dimmed, and the noise of the water, the steam of the heat of it, it's complete sensory deprivation and Carlton hates it. He'd take a bath instead but he doesn't trust that either: too long too naked too vulnerable, and then he looks over at Spencer stretched out next to him, and he gets an idea.

"Spencer? Can I ask a favor?"

"Of course."

And then Carlton is filled, suddenly, with shame at showing this weakness…but it's the only way he can get help, and he desperately wants it. "First, I'm going to show you where all the weapons are in the house. Just in case. And then I'd like to take a shower. There aren't any guns in the bathroom; I wouldn't be able to see well enough to fire one in the shower anyway, and so…would you watch my back? While I shower?"

Spencer grins, suddenly. "Of course, Lassiedear. Of course." He leans up on one elbow and watches with a look Carlton could only describe as appreciative as Carlton – nearly naked – throws back the bedcovers and gets out of bed, pausing for a moment to step into his slippers.

"Come on, then," he mutters to Shawn, and then proceeds to take him on a tour of the house, because he remembers where all the weapons are, and maybe sharing that burden with Spencer will lighten it: maybe Shawn can help remember, maybe he won't have to remember so hard. At the end, they end up at the threshold of the bathroom, and Shawn reaches out once more to cup Carlton's face in both his hands.

"I'll be right out here, to protect you," he says, sounding more serious than Carlton's ever heard him sound in his entire life. And just like earlier, he presses a comforting nearly-chaste kiss to Carlton's lips, before letting go and raising one hand in a sloppy salute. "You'll be just fine."

It's just about the quickest shower in Carlton's life; he's nervous, all over adrenaline, and even surrounded by water and soap and steam it still tastes like metal in his mouth, like fear. He can hear his own heart pounding even over the roar of the shower, suddenly as loud as Niagara Falls, and he skips conditioning his hair and turns the water off with one trembling hand.

He steps out of the shower to the safety of the bathmat – as if, somehow, a striped square of terrycloth could keep him safe from he-doesn't-know-what. Carlton reaches for one of the towels, wraps it securely around his waist, and is filled with the sudden need to be anywhere but in his bathroom: the walls are close, the mirror is fogged, there are no windows and he knows where all the weapons are and none of them are in this room.

Carlton reaches for the doorknob, turns and pushes, and while the knob turns freely, there's something blocking the door, blocking his exit. He swallows down panic, repeats the process, and nearly falls into Spencer's arms as the door suddenly swings open.

"I'm sorry, I heard the water go off but I didn't think you'd be done so quickly," Spencer babbles, and it's then that Carlton realizes how seriously the other man was taking his duty of watching his back: he'd dragged one of the chairs from the dining-room into the hallway, propped it against the bathroom door, angled it in such a way that the hallway gun (hidden in a fake sconce) was within arm's reach.

It's amazing.

It's quite possibly the nicest thing anyone's ever done for him, he thinks, and his hands are still trembling as he reaches out for Spencer. "You're amazing," he breathes, and his fingers curl around Spencer's shoulders, press hard, and he tips his head in for a kiss.

This isn't chaste, like in the morning, like the night before: Carlton is suddenly wanting and needing and frantic, and it doesn't take long for Shawn to follow him right to that same place.

Carlton lifts his head, looks Shawn straight in the eyes. "Back to bed?" he murmurs.

"God, _yes_," and, hand –in-hand, they make their way to the end of the hallway, back to Carlton's sunlit bedroom.

Carlton's hands are still a little trembly, but Spencer doesn't mention anything: doesn't seem to mind that, or the fact that he's still wet from the shower, or the fact that he's clad in a damp pinstriped towel. He leads him to the bed, playfully shoves him down on it, stretches himself out atop him, and then there's more frantic kisses, needy kisses, and it seems like an eternity later when Spencer shifts away, looks Carlton in the eyes again.

(This time, _his_ voice is breathless.)

"Can I, Lassi – Carlton, can I, Carlton?" He reaches for the towel, still keeping up the eye-contact, and Carlton wants to answer but can only manage a whimper and a nod of the head and he closes his eyes as Spencer pulls the towel away, spreads it out on the bed. When he looks again, Spencer's pulling off his boxer-briefs, and he's inching closer, maneuvering them both on the damp towel – to protect the blankets, Carlton realizes somewhere in the back of his head, and he marvels that Spencer's able to have such considerate thoughts at a moment like this.

It's not much longer before the other man's quick hands, skilled fingers, have managed to stroke them both to completion, and Carlton's pretty sure it's the best orgasm he's ever had in his life, a mutual masturbation better than half the full on sex he's ever had, and he doesn't want to think anymore and this time he's the one curled up in Spencer's arms and he falls asleep without another thought.

[[*****]]

The third time Carlton wakes up, the sun is setting, painting the sky in the sort of colors that played in his mind when he came, and that makes him smile, and then he realizes that he's in bed alone and that's enough to make him panic, spring to his feet, pull on boxers and jeans and a sweater, tiptoe back down the hallway, remembering where all the weapons are, hoping the sound of his own heartbeat isn't loud enough for an intruder to hear.

Thankfully there's no intruder.

Thankfully, there's Shawn Spencer, in a pair of Carlton's underwear and Carlton's slippers, standing at the stove, cooking something? That's a miracle in and of itself; there's never much to eat at the best of times in his house, he thinks, and this is far from the best of times, as far as having the forethought to go shopping is concerned.

Shawn looks at him, and his whole face lights up. "Good evening, sleepyhead," he says, holding open his arms, and Carlton finds himself moving into that waiting embrace.

He kisses Shawn on the cheek, looks down at the frying pan. "Are you making pancakes?"

"Yep."

"…how on earth are you making pancakes?"

Shawn bites his lip, reaches for the spatula, flips the pancake before answering. "It was all I could think of to make. The Bisquik expired a couple weeks ago, but I decided we could risk it. Dude, pancakes are the ultimate lazy man's food! All you need is pancake mix and beer, and I found a Heineken at the back of your fridge."

It's domestic and it's nice and it's beautiful; Carlton remembers where all the weapons are as he puts on a pot of coffee, rummages through the cupboards for plates and forks and coffee mugs. There isn't any maple syrup, but honey's just as good as far as he's concerned.

Spencer agrees.

They eat their pancakes in front of the television, drink their coffee, fall into a companionable silence watching a marathon of 48 Hours.

(And Carlton begins to think: as long as Spencer is within arm's reach, everything's going to be okay.)


	3. NearYou

[[Dear Readers:

I love you for reading this. Thank you.

~Elske.]]

_Adrenaline, it pulls us near_

_I'll take you over._

[[&day 3. NearYou.]]

Carlton Lassiter is drowning on dry land.

He wakes with a start, choking, his heart racing: and when he's awake he knows he's not really drowning, but he suspects he might be having a heart attack. He wrenches his eyes open, looking for Spencer, trying to call out to the other man only he's hyperventilating too much to speak.

"Shh, shh, easy, just breathe, relax." Spencer's suddenly there, at his side, with a glass of water and two of those blue pills. He nudges the straw towards Carlton, who tips his head and manages to take a sip of the water, and that helps. He chokes, wheezes, takes another sip, tilts his head back to swallow the pills from Shawn's hand.

"You're having a panic attack," Spencer says, matter-of-factly. "It happens to my mom, sometimes. You've met her, right?"

Carlton can only nod.

"She's got this freaky memory thing, she remembers everything she hears. Everything. And sometimes she just gets, you know, overloaded. Could you imagine what it's like, not to forget anything?" Shawn reaches for the red knit blanket he's so fond of, deftly wraps it around Carlton like a cocoon – like a straightjacket, he can't help thinking, and he remembers seeing his father in the hospital that one time and then he quickly remembers where all the guns are.

(And he looks at the dark circles under Shawn Spencer's eyes and wonders, for a moment, if such a talent runs in the family, and maybe that's why the other man keeps insisting he believes he's a psychic.)

Carlton is still hiccupping, gasping for air, trying to remember how to breathe. Spencer, meanwhile, has hopped into bed next to him, piled up about half a dozen pillows so Carlton can sit up.

"It's gonna be okay, man, just relax, okay?" Spencer snuggles in close, _really_ close, wraps both arms around Carlton's blanket-cocooned self.

Through the blankets, Carlton can feel the rhythm of Spencer's breathing, the steadiness of the other man's heartbeat, and some combination of all of it leads to a great feeling of safety; one of the greatest feelings of safety he's ever had in his entire life, in fact. He closes his eyes, and listens to Spencer tell him about a misadventure with Uncle Jack and soon enough the sedatives take effect.

When he wakes, Spencer is snoring and that simple fact – being relaxed, safe enough with eachother to _snore_ – makes him grin a rather stupid childish grin. He tries to shrug off the blankets, fails because he's wrapped up too tightly, manages to use one elbow to nudge Spencer awake.

He flinches, laughs, leans down looking into Carlton's eyes. "You woke me up," he mutters, with sleepy pretend indignation. "Therefore I am going to kiss you and there's nothing you can do about it." He gives Carlton a quick peck on the lips, then leans up, helping free the other from the blanket cocoon. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah, I think I am," Carlton says, and it surprises him because it seems to be the truth. He stretches, looks up at Spencer, remembers where all the guns are, and then surprises himself by saying "We need to get out of this house." And he watches as Spencer gets pale, all of a sudden, and so he says "I know another place, just as safe, maybe safer, we could spend the afternoon. There's someone I want you to meet, besides."

Spencer's eyes are half-lowered, and he shrugs one shoulder, mutters "Can I borrow something to wear?"

And so Carlton keeps watch while it's Spencer's turn to shower, and he emerges wearing one of Carlton's undershirts with a button-up unbuttoned over it, and it's somehow both so _him_ and so _Spencer_ that it's unintentionally half-erotic and half-comforting. It's an outward symbol of togetherness, and he wonders if this is how Spencer felt a few days ago, when he was wearing one of his shirts, and he smiles all of a sudden, a giddy sort of smile.

The circumstances could be better, but this is nice, he thinks.

He's not about to leave the house unarmed. He always keeps a gun in the glove-box – right next to the flashing light when his civilian car turns business – and he _knows_ that, but there's still something strange about leaving the house without the familiar weight of the holster across his back.

They're standing there on the doorstep and Spencer reaches for his hand, weaves his fingers through Carlton's and squeezes tight and that's enough to give Carlton the courage to continue. "We're going to take the long way. In case anyone's following us," he says softly, and Spencer nods, and together they step into the sun.

Behind the wheel of the car, Carlton actually relaxes a bit, and he wonders why he didn't think of this sooner: driving always relaxes him, he thinks, and then he thinks about the gun in the glove box, and then he smiles and squeezes Spencer's hand.

Spencer grins, and brings their joined hands up to his lips, presses a kiss to the inside of Carlton's wrist: a little gesture, to be certain, but there's something about it that makes him shiver all over in the best way possible. And either the other man is really psychic or just very attentive, because almost at once he does it again and it's enough to make Carlton think inappropriate thoughts about Spencer, about sex, about sex with Spencer and it's all he can do to nod his head in all the right places in the other man's rambling story about Burton Guster and some woman named Regina.

Late in the afternoon, they finally reach their destination: a small farm, a pasture full of horses that approach the car in the drive curiously. Perhaps they recognize his car, Carlton thinks, perhaps they know that he always has treats for them, and that makes him grin.

"We came to see horses?" Spencer's grinning too, and Carlton laughs, turns the key to shut off the car.

"Come on," he says, and leads the way to the stable.

The owner of the farm – a slightly built, middle-aged woman - is raking out one of the stalls, she turns and salutes Carlton. "Hey, Binky," she says.

"Good afternoon, Lilly," he replies, cordially, trying to ignore Spencer's moment of snickering, his elbow jabbing at his ribs. "We're here to see the General."

"I'm sure he'll be glad to see you," she says, and Spencer turns his head one way and the other, taking in all the scenery about them.

"The General?" he asks, and Carlton leaves him in suspense until they're standing in front of the stall with the placard "GENERAL" over it.

"Yes, Spencer. This is General. General, Spencer. …and yes, I just introduced you to a horse." Carlton's moving to the side of the cream-colored palomino. "My horse, to be specific."

"You own a horse? You own a horse," and he's smiling that incredulous sort of smile that Carlton secretly adores. "I remember him! You rode him at that Civil War thing – I didn't know he was yours."

"Remember when you teased me about always wanting a pony?" Carlton mutters, dryly. "I might have told you then, but I didn't."

"Lassiter! Let's run away and be cowboys," Spencer declares, reaching out to pet the horse on the nose.

"Don't tempt me. Do you know anything about horses?"

"This is one." He points to General. "There's another one over there. What more do I need to know?"

"A whole lot more," he says, attempting for sternness, but the grin on his face totally spoils it. "I can teach you. When it's safer, we can go riding. Okay?"

"Yeah," and Spencer's eyes are very wide. He listens as Carlton recites General's impressive pedigree – being a rare and historically-accurate breed.

"General hears all my secrets," Carlton admits, shyly, and then leans in to whisper something inaudible in General's ear. He's pretty sure Spencer could hear enough to know that _this_ secret was about him, and he doesn't mind that in the least.

They visit the horses until Carlton gets too edgy – his weapon is simply too far away – and then they say goodbye to Lilly, get back into the car, and he sighs with relief as he settles into the drivers' seat. "Should we go home?" he asks, and it's telling, the emphasis he puts on that one word, home.

"I'm starving," Shawn complains softly, and so they stop for pizza along the way, take it back to the safety of Carlton's condo. And crossing the threshold is something of a relief, because Carlton knows where all the weapons are, because he and Shawn are home and they are safe and they are together.

They watch Dateline and eat their pizza and Carlton's mind keeps drifting: sometimes to where the weapons are, sometimes to the best escape route from the house if necessary, but mostly, to remembering the feel of Spencer's lips on the soft skin at the inside of his wrist.

There's decades of guilt and shame weighing him down, but he manages to reach out and take Spencer's hand and echo the gesture: is gratified to see the way Spencer looks at him, eyes all wide and dilated-pupil dark. So he does it again, with a scrape of his teeth and Spencer whimpers, encouragingly.

He leans in, whispers warmly "Come to bed?" and the invitation is so crystal clear that Spencer simply moves right into his waiting arms.


End file.
